


On Your Stomach

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [102]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Bickering, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Domestic Bliss, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Marking, Old Married Couple, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Series, Psychic Abilities, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Schmoop, Sleepy Sex, Smut, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 21:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7729555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam snores like a human chainsaw. Dean complains about it. A different outcome than expected occurs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Your Stomach

 

 

“Sam, you’re snoring.”

“Huh? What? What is it?”

“You’re snoring, goddammit.”

“Uh huh…”

“No, don’t fall back asleep! Roll over!”

“Later.”

“You’re like this giant chainsaw. Right. Next. To. Me.”

“Mmph.”

“Sam.”

“Nnn.”

“Sam!”

“What! What is it?! Are you okay? Ouch! What was that for?”

“You’re lucky I don’t kick you off the bed. Sam, you’re snoring like Darth Vader over here. Roll the fuck over.”

“Oh my god, I thought there was something _important_ going on.”

“That is important! I can’t sleep! People three houses down from us can’t sleep because of you!”

“Hmph, well it’s not because of my snoring.”

“Don’t try to be cute.”

“I don’t have to try. I just am.”

“Oh no, you’re not sleeping on your back. Get on your stomach.”

“I will sleep however I want, Dean!”

“Then sleep on the couch!”

“You sleep on the couch! I’m not the one with the problem!”

“You’re the one causing it, of course you don’t have the problem! How can a man be expected to sleep next to a six foot chainsaw?”

“Six foot _five_ , Mr. Napoleon Complex.”

“...I am not short!”

“You’re short to me.”

“Everyone is short to you, you fucking Sasquatch.”

“Dean.”

“What!”

“If I blow you, will you let me sleep and snore all I want?”

“Yes. I mean. Fuck.”

“Ha! Too late, you already said yes.”

“Well… this doesn’t solve anything!”

“It will.”

“Not unless you fall asleep with my cock in your throat.”

“Nice image, Dean. No thank you.”

“You’re serious, huh?”

“Yep. I really just want you to shut up.”

“By blowing me?”

“Right after, you’ll roll over,” Sam proclaims, kneels on their bed, sweeps his hair into a ponytail, “and fall asleep. Problem solved.”

Dean’s legs instinctively open to accommodate Sam between them. He pouts, but cannot deny that his typical after sex routine involves getting in a cat nap. Sex is exercise. Decent people need rest after exercise. Sam isn’t decent people; he runs three miles every day without naps afterwards. People like that should be regarded as suspicious characters.

“That solves your problem,” Dean grumbles, glad that he shed his pajamas before getting into bed tonight. “Not mine.”

Hands on his hips, Sam shrugs. “Take it or leave it, Dean.”

“...just don’t bite.”

“I’m not an amateur,” Sam huffs.

“No, but I never know with you.”

“Touche. Now shut up.”

For a late night blow job, Dean gladly shuts up. Moonlight dimmed by the slender blinds of their windows casts over Sam’s hair. Highlights glint and the slick outline to Sam’s mouth shines. A few strands of hair escape their ponytail prison and tickle Dean’s inner thighs. The view never ceases to excite him. Hazel eyes glance up, and dimples flash. On cue, Dean’s cock reacts with an unmistakeable twitch of interest.

Sam is no amateur.

Hasn’t been for decades.

The pink tip of his tongue meets the pink tip of Dean’s cock. He starts out bold, tongue flickering at the sensitive crown for just a moment before sealing his lips over the head completely. Spit. Pressure. Spit. Pressure. Inch, by inch, Sam works his tongue over the head, down the shaft, and all the way back up again. He looks up, his dark expression almost innocent, and maintains eye contact while swirling his tongue over the leaking slit.

Exhaling, Dean cups Sam’s jaw line. He thumbs over Sam’s bottom lip and welcomes the flicker of wet, rough tongue over his fingers. Electric desperation surges through him, starting in the small of his back, working its way into his cock and clouding his mind with nothing but Sam, Sam, Sam.

A brief glance away gifts Dean with an unrivaled sight of sensuous curves, firm muscles, and miles of shapely legs. Sam basks, stretching out, accommodating himself further between Dean’s legs. He kisses Dean’s fingertips, followed by the head of his cock. Nothing can replace intimacy. Not even skill. Sam suckles on the head, wrapping his right hand around the base, and milks Dean with nothing but the purest and most eager enthusiasm. He tastes Dean, moans around his heavy cock, and knows exactly where to apply more pressure. Spit. Pressure. Spit. Pressure. Pressure. Pressure.

Dean shuts his eyes for one single moment. He tilts his head back and lets out a deep, rumbling groan the second his cock bumps against the back of Sam’s throat.

“Fuck,” he adds, twisting a handful of Sam’s hair in one hand and gripping the headboard with the other.

He might as well have saved his breath though, because a second later, Sam pops off and swallows him down to the base in one fluid motion. Sam Winchester: Professional Cocksucker. Dean tilts his hips forward, chasing the hot, wet feeling of Sam’s throat, enjoying the slight choking noises as a result of his movements. He pounds against one particular spot, hitting it effortlessly while he pulls on Sam’s hair.

Sam chokes. Coughs. Wheezes. His eyes water and his face flushes.

And he loves every second of it.

Replacing Sam’s hand, Dean strokes himself, pulling out to smack the tip of his cock against Sam’s inviting tongue. The slap, slap, slap sound of it fuels them both.

Surprisingly, it’s Sam who snaps.

He pushes Dean’s hand away and deep throats, going down one, two, three, four, five times, hollowing his cheeks, head bobbing, his hair spilling out from its hair tie. His lips increase pressure, gliding over the swell of Dean, his throat open and relaxed and perfect for fucking.

Which leads to Sam popping off again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and pulling Dean in for a rough, fierce kiss. Their lips smack. Their noses bump. Their teeth clash. And still, neither of them resists. The world is all the press of Dean’s lips against Sam’s, the friction of their tongues, and their collective hunger building into something larger than themselves.

“Fuck me,” Sam begs, his hands in Dean’s hair. “Please, Dean.”

Yes isn’t strong enough.

So Dean doesn’t say a word.

With precision, he flips them, switching out stars and moonlight for clouds of powder blue sheets. Chest to back, he grinds against Sam, hands all over, teeth firmly embedded in the length of Sam’s neck. This is quick. No teasing. A small amount of lube finds its way onto Dean’s palm. He braces himself, forehead pressed against Sam’s shoulder, and pushes against that tight, pink muscle he calls home.

Pushing inside Sam is familiar.

It’s comforting.

It is everything right in the universe.

And providing Sam pleasure from it--that’s the cherry on the fucking sundae.

He adjusts the angle. He grips Sam’s ass. He kneels behind, surveying the broad expanse of Sam’s back, and ignores the twinge of pain in his knee. Pulling out halfway, Dean savors the drag and heat over his cock. He drinks in the way Sam pulls him back in, arching, twisting, and spreading open.

The first thrust forward, Dean doesn’t hold back. He fucks into Sam hard and heavy. Their hips connect. Sam cries out and reaches back, pulling Dean down, gripping the hair at the nape of Dean’s neck. Dean rotates his hips, then concentrates on one single spot, hammering against a bundle of nerves that causes Sam to go slack underneath him. He amplifies the feeling by grinding Sam’s hips into the mattress, bearing down, never once relenting in the intensity of his thrusts. Sam’s ass bounces. The bed creaks. The headboard slams against the wall and the alarm clock on Dean’s nightstand flies across the room.

Sam starts shouting random things in Latin, then a slur of English, and back to Latin again. He tosses his head back, exposing his throat, and Dean slides his fingers over the exact right spots. They never stop moving together. Their rhythm remains unbreakable, changing only in pace, faster and faster as Dean applies pressure over those singular points of danger, harder and harder as he also fucks into Sam.

Dean presses his cheek against Sam’s, the both of them panting.

Then he makes it so that Sam starts gasping. Hazel eyes flutter. Muscles tense.

Sam comes with a muffled series of screams and moans. He clenches over Dean, coming on his cock, sweat mixing with tears at the burst of come stripping the sheets. Dean follows, never letting the pace settle, building up, his eyes rolling back as Sam’s ass contracts over his cock. His own cock swells and lets out a thick rope of come, followed by several more, filling Sam up to the brim.

It feels so good to come inside Sam, buried deep, where he likes to be.

It feels so good to lie on their bed, breathless, wrecked, soaked in sweat, come, and tears--unafraid of shadows, noises, or the thickness of walls. They stay this way, on their sides, chest to back still, with their feet against the now quiet headboard.

Quietly, Dean sighs. He cards his fingers through Sam’s hair. Regret may await them in the morning if they fall asleep like this. But then again, there are worse things.

Like Sam falling asleep first.

And Dean being awake to hear him snore.

**Author's Note:**

> Phew! Flexing my porn muscles. :D Had the urge to write some porn without plot and these two are perfect for that. It's so nice to slip in and out of this verse and visit with these two. <3
> 
> Comments are love!


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